OffRoaderX

I heard a rumor that the self-inflicted Queen Of All That Is GMRS has had one for a few months and really likes it, and will be making a video about it on the same day that Midland officially makes it available for purchase.
But you know, thats just a rumor.

This one time, at band camp, I found myself in a hell that only Xenu could punish me with: a gathering of licensed sad-H.A.M.s. I thought I was in for a fun-filled weeknd filled with music, but no, instead, I got stuck with a bunch of overgrown man-children playing with their glorified walkie-talkies.
From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in trouble. These guys, who were clearly incapable of any meaningful social interaction, swarmed the place like a plague of dorks. They had all the charm of a root canal and twice the ego. Imagine an army of Sheldons from The Big Bang Theory, but without any of the redeeming qualities or comedic timing. That’s what I was up against.
It all started innocently enough. I was trying to enjoy the campfire when a group of them descended on me. They were babbling in a language that was a mix of Klingon and technobabble, discussing radio frequencies and antenna designs as if they were secrets to eternal life. Their leader, a guy I’ll call Bob because he looked like every Bob you’ve ever met, decided he needed to “educate” me on the wonders of ham radio. I swear, if he had a ham-radio-shaped soapbox, he would have stood on it.
“Yo! Bob,” I said, “what’s the frequency for tuning into some good music?” It was a joke, a simple, harmless joke. But Bob, with all the wit and humor of a malfunctioning robot, started giving me a lecture on frequency bands and how important it is to get a license - he must have said "i've been a licensed ham-radio operator for over 25 years" over 20 times.
Every time I tried to engage in normal human-conversation, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that talked back, but only to explain in excruciating detail why you were wrong about everything. These guys couldn’t recognize sarcasm if it slapped them in the face and called them stupid. I tried to make a joke about their radios being a way to compensate for something, but they just nodded seriously and started discussing the size of their antennas. I kid you not.
The other operators were no better. They were like drones, each waiting for their turn to speak about their precious radios, completely unaware that no one else cared. Conversations were like passing around a hot potato, except the potato was a steaming pile of boredom, and no one wanted to let go of it. It was mind-numbing.
One night, after enduring yet another lecture from Bob about the superiority of Morse code, I lost it. I stood up and said, “Look, I get that you guys are into this stuff, but I came here to relax, not to join your cult. Can we, for the love of Xenu, talk about something else for five minutes?”
They stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Then, Bob, with his usual cluelessness, said, “But amateur radio is the best way to relax! You just haven’t experienced it properly yet. You should get your ham ticket!”
At that moment, I fantasized about using Bob’s radio as a blunt instrument. Instead, I walked away, muttering curses under my breath. I retreated to my tent, trying to block out the sound of their droning voices and the endless beeping of Morse code. I couldn’t believe I had paid to be in this dork-fest.
As the days dragged on, I learned to tune them out. I found solace in the woods, away from the incessant chatter and the constant hum of their radios. I survived band camp, but just barely. I walked away with a story that would make for great campfire tales, but also a newfound appreciation for the blissful silence of solitude.
In the end, I was not assimilated, and thank Xenu for that. I escaped with my sanity mostly intact, but I knew one thing for sure: never again would I underestimate the sheer, unrelenting boredom that comes with a bunch of licensed sad-hams. 

This one time, at band camp, I found myself in a hell that only Xenu could punish me with: a gathering of licensed sad-H.A.M.s. I thought I was in for a fun-filled weeknd filled with music, but no, instead, I got stuck with a bunch of overgrown man-children playing with their glorified walkie-talkies.
From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in trouble. These guys, who were clearly incapable of any meaningful social interaction, swarmed the place like a plague of dorks. They had all the charm of a root canal and twice the ego. Imagine an army of Sheldons from The Big Bang Theory, but without any of the redeeming qualities or comedic timing. That’s what I was up against.
It all started innocently enough. I was trying to enjoy the campfire when a group of them descended on me. They were babbling in a language that was a mix of Klingon and technobabble, discussing radio frequencies and antenna designs as if they were secrets to eternal life. Their leader, a guy I’ll call Bob because he looked like every Bob you’ve ever met, decided he needed to “educate” me on the wonders of ham radio. I swear, if he had a ham-radio-shaped soapbox, he would have stood on it.
“Yo! Bob,” I said, “what’s the frequency for tuning into some good music?” It was a joke, a simple, harmless joke. But Bob, with all the wit and humor of a malfunctioning robot, started giving me a lecture on frequency bands and how important it is to get a license - he must have said "i've been a licensed ham-radio operator for over 25 years" over 20 times.
Every time I tried to engage in normal human-conversation, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that talked back, but only to explain in excruciating detail why you were wrong about everything. These guys couldn’t recognize sarcasm if it slapped them in the face and called them stupid. I tried to make a joke about their radios being a way to compensate for something, but they just nodded seriously and started discussing the size of their antennas. I kid you not.
The other operators were no better. They were like drones, each waiting for their turn to speak about their precious radios, completely unaware that no one else cared. Conversations were like passing around a hot potato, except the potato was a steaming pile of boredom, and no one wanted to let go of it. It was mind-numbing.
One night, after enduring yet another lecture from Bob about the superiority of Morse code, I lost it. I stood up and said, “Look, I get that you guys are into this stuff, but I came here to relax, not to join your cult. Can we, for the love of Xenu, talk about something else for five minutes?”
They stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Then, Bob, with his usual cluelessness, said, “But amateur radio is the best way to relax! You just haven’t experienced it properly yet. You should get your ham ticket!”
At that moment, I fantasized about using Bob’s radio as a blunt instrument. Instead, I walked away, muttering curses under my breath. I retreated to my tent, trying to block out the sound of their droning voices and the endless beeping of Morse code. I couldn’t believe I had paid to be in this dork-fest.
As the days dragged on, I learned to tune them out. I found solace in the woods, away from the incessant chatter and the constant hum of their radios. I survived band camp, but just barely. I walked away with a story that would make for great campfire tales, but also a newfound appreciation for the blissful silence of solitude.
In the end, I was not assimilated, and thank Xenu for that. I escaped with my sanity mostly intact, but I knew one thing for sure: never again would I underestimate the sheer, unrelenting boredom that comes with a bunch of licensed sad-hams. 

This one time, at band camp, I found myself in a hell that only Xenu could punish me with: a gathering of licensed sad-H.A.M.s. I thought I was in for a fun-filled weeknd filled with music, but no, instead, I got stuck with a bunch of overgrown man-children playing with their glorified walkie-talkies.
From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in trouble. These guys, who were clearly incapable of any meaningful social interaction, swarmed the place like a plague of dorks. They had all the charm of a root canal and twice the ego. Imagine an army of Sheldons from The Big Bang Theory, but without any of the redeeming qualities or comedic timing. That’s what I was up against.
It all started innocently enough. I was trying to enjoy the campfire when a group of them descended on me. They were babbling in a language that was a mix of Klingon and technobabble, discussing radio frequencies and antenna designs as if they were secrets to eternal life. Their leader, a guy I’ll call Bob because he looked like every Bob you’ve ever met, decided he needed to “educate” me on the wonders of ham radio. I swear, if he had a ham-radio-shaped soapbox, he would have stood on it.
“Yo! Bob,” I said, “what’s the frequency for tuning into some good music?” It was a joke, a simple, harmless joke. But Bob, with all the wit and humor of a malfunctioning robot, started giving me a lecture on frequency bands and how important it is to get a license - he must have said "i've been a licensed ham-radio operator for over 25 years" over 20 times.
Every time I tried to engage in normal human-conversation, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that talked back, but only to explain in excruciating detail why you were wrong about everything. These guys couldn’t recognize sarcasm if it slapped them in the face and called them stupid. I tried to make a joke about their radios being a way to compensate for something, but they just nodded seriously and started discussing the size of their antennas. I kid you not.
The other operators were no better. They were like drones, each waiting for their turn to speak about their precious radios, completely unaware that no one else cared. Conversations were like passing around a hot potato, except the potato was a steaming pile of boredom, and no one wanted to let go of it. It was mind-numbing.
One night, after enduring yet another lecture from Bob about the superiority of Morse code, I lost it. I stood up and said, “Look, I get that you guys are into this stuff, but I came here to relax, not to join your cult. Can we, for the love of Xenu, talk about something else for five minutes?”
They stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Then, Bob, with his usual cluelessness, said, “But amateur radio is the best way to relax! You just haven’t experienced it properly yet. You should get your ham ticket!”
At that moment, I fantasized about using Bob’s radio as a blunt instrument. Instead, I walked away, muttering curses under my breath. I retreated to my tent, trying to block out the sound of their droning voices and the endless beeping of Morse code. I couldn’t believe I had paid to be in this dork-fest.
As the days dragged on, I learned to tune them out. I found solace in the woods, away from the incessant chatter and the constant hum of their radios. I survived band camp, but just barely. I walked away with a story that would make for great campfire tales, but also a newfound appreciation for the blissful silence of solitude.
In the end, I was not assimilated, and thank Xenu for that. I escaped with my sanity mostly intact, but I knew one thing for sure: never again would I underestimate the sheer, unrelenting boredom that comes with a bunch of licensed sad-hams. 

This one time, at band camp, I found myself in a hell that only Xenu could punish me with: a gathering of licensed sad-H.A.M.s. I thought I was in for a fun-filled weeknd filled with music, but no, instead, I got stuck with a bunch of overgrown man-children playing with their glorified walkie-talkies.
From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in trouble. These guys, who were clearly incapable of any meaningful social interaction, swarmed the place like a plague of dorks. They had all the charm of a root canal and twice the ego. Imagine an army of Sheldons from The Big Bang Theory, but without any of the redeeming qualities or comedic timing. That’s what I was up against.
It all started innocently enough. I was trying to enjoy the campfire when a group of them descended on me. They were babbling in a language that was a mix of Klingon and technobabble, discussing radio frequencies and antenna designs as if they were secrets to eternal life. Their leader, a guy I’ll call Bob because he looked like every Bob you’ve ever met, decided he needed to “educate” me on the wonders of ham radio. I swear, if he had a ham-radio-shaped soapbox, he would have stood on it.
“Yo! Bob,” I said, “what’s the frequency for tuning into some good music?” It was a joke, a simple, harmless joke. But Bob, with all the wit and humor of a malfunctioning robot, started giving me a lecture on frequency bands and how important it is to get a license - he must have said "i've been a licensed ham-radio operator for over 25 years" over 20 times.
Every time I tried to engage in normal human-conversation, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that talked back, but only to explain in excruciating detail why you were wrong about everything. These guys couldn’t recognize sarcasm if it slapped them in the face and called them stupid. I tried to make a joke about their radios being a way to compensate for something, but they just nodded seriously and started discussing the size of their antennas. I kid you not.
The other operators were no better. They were like drones, each waiting for their turn to speak about their precious radios, completely unaware that no one else cared. Conversations were like passing around a hot potato, except the potato was a steaming pile of boredom, and no one wanted to let go of it. It was mind-numbing.
One night, after enduring yet another lecture from Bob about the superiority of Morse code, I lost it. I stood up and said, “Look, I get that you guys are into this stuff, but I came here to relax, not to join your cult. Can we, for the love of Xenu, talk about something else for five minutes?”
They stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Then, Bob, with his usual cluelessness, said, “But amateur radio is the best way to relax! You just haven’t experienced it properly yet. You should get your ham ticket!”
At that moment, I fantasized about using Bob’s radio as a blunt instrument. Instead, I walked away, muttering curses under my breath. I retreated to my tent, trying to block out the sound of their droning voices and the endless beeping of Morse code. I couldn’t believe I had paid to be in this dork-fest.
As the days dragged on, I learned to tune them out. I found solace in the woods, away from the incessant chatter and the constant hum of their radios. I survived band camp, but just barely. I walked away with a story that would make for great campfire tales, but also a newfound appreciation for the blissful silence of solitude.
In the end, I was not assimilated, and thank Xenu for that. I escaped with my sanity mostly intact, but I knew one thing for sure: never again would I underestimate the sheer, unrelenting boredom that comes with a bunch of licensed sad-hams. 

Your "rubberized shoe" will block DC current.
 . . . but radio waves are not DC, they are AC, and the higher the AC frequency, the more that signal will see that close by metal car body as a short to the antenna base
460+mhz is really really fast wiggling AC, it sees the base of the antenna and the car body as connected.
Fear not
 
 

No.

No.

Yah, but was his dog in it?

Yah, but was his dog in it?

I heard a rumor that the self-inflicted Queen Of All That Is GMRS has had one for a few months and really likes it, and will be making a video about it on the same day that Midland officially makes it available for purchase.
But you know, thats just a rumor.

There was a very familiar dog taking a dump in the video I saw. It was a good video. 

I heard a rumor that the self-inflicted Queen Of All That Is GMRS has had one for a few months and really likes it, and will be making a video about it on the same day that Midland officially makes it available for purchase.
But you know, thats just a rumor.

Uh huh.. Are these older repeaters here in the room with us now?

Thanks for helping your favorite viewer. 

No.

I keep my Roger Beep on - when someone complains about it, I remind them that its my radio and nobody is forcing them to listen to me.

No, they are not. They are owned by a British Investment Group and unfortunately they are made in China and they are by no means cheap.

The GMRS antenna on both my Jeeps is at the rear-passenger corner. Its not the most optimal location, but it works just fine.  SWR on the LJ is 2.1:1, and on the JKU is 1.6:1 .. Range is great and I regularly get simplex fars of 20+Miles and can hit one of my repeaters from 98 miles.. So dont let any of the "experts" tell you that this mounting location "wont work"... Both Jeeps have Motorola XTL5000 radios.
CB (when I used it) was same location, but dont use CB anymore.

I own/have used all of these..
The short answer is - all of them can transmit the same number of fars, but:
The Midlands are 'simple' and great if you just want a radio in your vehicle (or as a base) to talk to other GMRS radios - Both the 400 and 500 can do wideband - but to enable wideband on the 400 you need a computer, cable, and the software.  On the 500 you can do it very easily on the radio - (FYI- you DO want wideband on a GMRS radio).. They are also (very) limited in how many repeaters you can program them for, and (iirc) they cannot monitor/listen to any non-GMRS frequencies except maybe NOAA channels.. All these limitations make for VERY simple, VERY easy to use radios.  The Midlands also come with everything you need to get up and running, right in the box (antenna & "coax"). The antenna and coax arent the best, but, they do work surprisingly well, and work plenty good enough for someone that needs a simple "just want to talk in the car" type radio - so be wary of those telling you "it's junk" or "costs way to much" -Obviously this type of radio is not intended for them and they can't comprehend the value of "simple".
The KG-1000G is wide-band out of the box, and is a much more complicated radio.  its great if you want to use a lot of repeaters, scan non-GMRS frequencies, etc -  the KG-1000G 'does more', but, its more complicated to learn/use.. Not "difficult", but, more.  The KG1000G is also a "superheterodyne" radio, which means the guts are a bit better quality than the Midlands - they may receive a bit better and may ignore off-frequency noise a bit better.   With the KG1000G You will also need to purchase an antenna and coax.  Be wary of those telling you "its just cheap chinese junk!!" - When they tell you that, ask them for the data that supports their opinion, and then ask them which "not made in China, non-junk FCC Part 95e GMRS radio" they recommend instead.

I own/have used all of these..
The short answer is - all of them can transmit the same number of fars, but:
The Midlands are 'simple' and great if you just want a radio in your vehicle (or as a base) to talk to other GMRS radios - Both the 400 and 500 can do wideband - but to enable wideband on the 400 you need a computer, cable, and the software.  On the 500 you can do it very easily on the radio - (FYI- you DO want wideband on a GMRS radio).. They are also (very) limited in how many repeaters you can program them for, and (iirc) they cannot monitor/listen to any non-GMRS frequencies except maybe NOAA channels.. All these limitations make for VERY simple, VERY easy to use radios.  The Midlands also come with everything you need to get up and running, right in the box (antenna & "coax"). The antenna and coax arent the best, but, they do work surprisingly well, and work plenty good enough for someone that needs a simple "just want to talk in the car" type radio - so be wary of those telling you "it's junk" or "costs way to much" -Obviously this type of radio is not intended for them and they can't comprehend the value of "simple".
The KG-1000G is wide-band out of the box, and is a much more complicated radio.  its great if you want to use a lot of repeaters, scan non-GMRS frequencies, etc -  the KG-1000G 'does more', but, its more complicated to learn/use.. Not "difficult", but, more.  The KG1000G is also a "superheterodyne" radio, which means the guts are a bit better quality than the Midlands - they may receive a bit better and may ignore off-frequency noise a bit better.   With the KG1000G You will also need to purchase an antenna and coax.  Be wary of those telling you "its just cheap chinese junk!!" - When they tell you that, ask them for the data that supports their opinion, and then ask them which "not made in China, non-junk FCC Part 95e GMRS radio" they recommend instead.

Not that I dont trust you, or think you're making stuff up out of thin air, but i would love for you to share some actual facts about all these others this has happened to.  Perhaps a link to the FCC enforcement database entry?  Because as I'm sure you know, every time the FCC breathes down anyones neck, for any reason, by law, the FCC must publish that enforcement.

I keep my Roger Beep on - when someone complains about it, I remind them that its my radio and nobody is forcing them to listen to me.

I heard a rumor that the self-inflicted Queen Of All That Is GMRS has had one for a few months and really likes it, and will be making a video about it on the same day that Midland officially makes it available for purchase.
But you know, thats just a rumor.

No.